Martyr for Midnight
by Mackenzie L
Summary: Every night she visits him in her dreams. When the midnight hour strikes she will find him waiting for her under the stars, and together they will dance. — A series of dreams in which fate tempts a young and vulnerable Esme.
1. Martyr for Midnight

**Martyr for Midnight**

**by Mackenzie L.**

_This story started as a one-shot, but I've chosen to expand it into a series of different dreams Esme had about Doctor Cullen through her youth. _

___This story is dedicated to Milene Lira. _Thank you for being such a wonderful friend, Milene! This is for you. ^_^

**-}o{-**

_*Twilight Saga and characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer_

* * *

The room began as an unfilled sketch, lines and scratches slowly smoothed by beams of bright colors before her eyes. The weight of slumber lay upon her eyelids, but the need to see the room around her was irresistible. She fought to keep her eyes open, to watch as a vast floor stretched out in front of her, the shimmering marble pooling at her feet. From the floor, long marble columns grew like tall trees, surrounding her in a wide semi-circle. Behind them, a long, curved wall covered in lengthy glass windows overlooked a stunning sea of mighty, midnight colored waves, crashing peacefully on a beach of silver sand. Above the waters, a majestic night crystallized in rapid strokes, like thick ultramarine paint choked by the glitter of a thousand stars.

This dream was too detailed, too striking, too real to be all in her mind. Her eyes were nearly blinded by the overload of colors and shapes. The depth and spatial perfection of the room itself begged her feet to step further inside, and she knew that walking forward would take her someplace new. This was not one of those dreams she would be forced to watch as if from a faraway balcony on high. No, this dream was different. This dream was inviting her to become a part of it... to become lost inside of it.

Esme took her first step into the breathtaking scene, and as she did, her eyes dropped to look down at her feet. She wore a foreign pair of slippers, too fancy to have ever belonged to her in real life. They were deep gold in color, accented with silky mauve bows and fancily-beaded Eisdraht swirls. Esme paused to admire the lovely dancing slippers, tilting her ankles up on either side to watch the bejeweled decor sparkle in the fluorescent moonlight.

She smiled mirthfully to herself, pleased that her dream had indulged her with such a lovely gift. Though she still wore her simple white nightshift, Esme felt like a princess in those enchanting slippers.

She took several more steps forward, marveling at the natural slide of her soles against the hard marble floor. It felt so incredibly real, she wondered for a moment if she were really walking in her sleep.

The moonbeams beckoned her further towards the great glass windows, but as soon as she stepped into the silvery light, she stopped in her tracks.

Like everything else, he appeared from the dust of nothing – a vision so vivid, she grasped at her heart with her hand. His form was all too familiar as he stood before the windows on the far end of the spacious room, silhouetted by the moonlit night.

When the dream introduced Doctor Cullen, he did not come alone. He brought with him the company of at least a dozen candles which burned low in the background of the shadowy ballroom. All Esme knew was that there had been no light before she had seen him... and when he appeared, those candles materialized just as swiftly as he did.

He did not see her watching him from behind as he stood by the window. His fingers were laced together, resting behind his back, his feet firm on the ground and head held high. He was dressed in clothing that must have come from decades before she had been born, like an 18th century prince with everything but his crown. His jacket was made of iris blue velvet, lined with a trim of white gold, and his pants were pale, half covered by a pair of dark leather boots that reached his knees. He seemed perfectly content to watch the stars twinkle in stillness, and it baffled her that a man like him could find wonder in something so mundane, so unimpressive in comparison to his own beauty.

Esme's heart gave a jolt as her doctor turned his head ever so slightly in her direction, as if he had sensed her presence behind him. With the moon's blessing, the achingly familiar contour of his smooth profile seemed to glow. His skin was as pale as she remembered it being, even more so in the starkness of the night. But when he turned and faced her fully, she saw that his eyes were deep – so much deeper than she recalled. She remembered the golden gleam of his gaze as if she had seen it every day of her life, but she had never imagined his eyes this way before. Here, they were dark – so deep and dark – they reminded her of a coal-fed fire at the end of its life. They were still burning, still full of heat... but they were calm and kind and gentle.

He must have recognized her as his patient, for once his eyes rested on her face, he sent her a small, clandestine smile. Once Esme had seen the utter kindness in his face, she had no fear of approaching him. Every step she took across the marble tundra made her feel safer, knowing she would soon be at his side. She came closer to the place he stood, and her skin felt tingly, her cheeks blossomed with soft pink fire. He was so much taller than she had remembered, so handsome that her memory could have never done his godly appearance justice.

He turned his body to face her as a gentleman should, and he extended his hand for hers without a word. Esme did not hesitate before she placed her palm in his, delighted by the unexpected warmth of his skin.

His hands were not chilled as they had been on the night he healed her. They were now every bit as warm as hers...maybe warmer. His eyes said all the words his lips would not as he slowly lifted her hand and placed upon her knuckles a delicate kiss.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She looked at him questioningly, failing to see any reason why he should offer thanks to her.

"I've been standing here alone for so long," he explained in his soft voice, "praying for company."

Esme lowered her eyes, blushing. "I've been lonely as well."

"We're together now," he assured. With two fingers he tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

She looked shyly back up at him from beneath her heavy eyelids. "Promise you won't leave me?"

"I promise."

He took both her hands in his and held them against the middle of his chest, his touch cherishing. "Dance with me," he whispered.

A tiny quiver of delight raced through her as she looked around the empty ballroom, considering his tempting suggestion. "We have no music."

"Oh, but we do, Esme. You must listen for it," he murmured, touching her earlobe with a gentle finger. "Listen to the stars."

Esme closed her eyes and listened to a silent waltz as he slowly twirled her into his arms. His right hand grasped hers while his left hand settled securely around her waist, drawing her near.

"Do you hear them playing for us?" he asked her.

"I think so..." She smiled.

His voice was closer when he next spoke. "Is not their melody the sweetest sound you have ever heard?"

"Yes," she agreed, holding more tightly to his shoulder. "Spellbinding."

"May I hold you closer?" he whispered over her head.

A sensation like delicate fire spread from her fingers to her toes. "Please..." Her voice was barely audible, but she knew he would always hear her. His fingers on her waist gripped tighter and slid carefully around her back, pressing her closer until her chest brushed against his.

"We could dance this way forever, you know," he whispered, his deep voice so terribly tempting.

She shook her head against his shoulder, her hands clinging to the back of his neck. "But eventually I will wake up from this dream, and you will be gone."

His eyes furrowed sadly as he pulled back to look down at her. "I promised I would never leave you."

"Promises made by dreams are not to be trusted," she countered softly.

"You must trust me, Esme."

"I wish I could, Doctor."

"You can trust me..." He bowed his blond head to whisper into her ear.

"You will abandon me when the night is through. There is no way to escape it," she told him, her eyes dim with regret.

"Then we must savor this time we have been given together," he said, slowing their romantic waltz as they passed by the windows. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, staring at her intently as his fingers weaved through her long caramel tresses. He was memorizing her every feature, she guessed, just as she would have to do with his handsome face every night.

"Oh, I am so terrible... Just awful," Esme whimpered, burying her face shamefully against his shoulder.

"Why do you say such things?"

"Because I want so much more than this," she whispered, trailing her fingers down his velvet and brocade covered arm.

"What is it you want, sweet Esme?"

"I want to...touch you," she confessed, raising her head to stare bravely into his eyes. "Every part of you... I want to see that you are real."

His gaze was glowing as he slowed to stand still beside the window. "Then touch me, my angel," he whispered, taking her hand in his and holding it against his cheek. "Feel me... I could not be more real."

"Oh..." Her fingers tingled as they touched his smooth skin, unwilling to let her believe he was real. Her heart pounding, she tried to pull her hand away, but he only trapped her closer, forcing her to feel him until tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"You want something else, Esme," he observed in a husky voice. "I can see it in your eyes."

There was no room for shame in the moonlight, she decided. No one but the man before her would ever have to hear her whisper her desires.

"Yes, I do want something else," she revealed slowly.

"Tell me," he insisted, his hushed drawl making her knees weak. "What is it you need?"

"I need to..." Her voice dropped, so soft it was like the coo of a dying bird – shy and weak and small. "...to kiss you."

His feet stopped moving entirely then, coming to a pause in the middle of their painfully slow dance to take her face and cradle it between his strong, healing hands. "We share the same need, my love."

In that very instant, Esme sprung awake in her bed, her pale skin glistening with a layer of cold perspiration. Her pillow was hot, her face flushed with a fever of unfinished desires. A throbbing ache lingered in her belly, and her heartbeat raced like a wild horse inside her chest. She could still taste the anticipation of him on her lips, could still feel the spirit of his breath heat her cheek, and the tender grip of his hands on her waist. The echo of his silken voice was still ringing in her ears, slowly tapering like a distant song through a cave.

Her eyes burned with hot tears, her lip quivering as she fought not to sob at this most tragic, inevitable loss. She longed to have his lips hold hers again, steadfast and gentle, to keep her from crying. His fingers would have swept the tears straight away from her cheeks; he would have tilted his head down and looked deeply into her eyes and hushed her with reassuring words through the rest of the night. He would have waited with her until dawn, holding her against his chest and murmuring angelic ambiance through his blessed lips.

But when another night passes, she will visit him again through her dreams. The days are bright and cruel, but the nights are dark and welcoming. She can escape from the rest of the world when the sun goes down, as she makes herself a martyr for midnight. When her head rests against the pillow and her eyes close at last, she knows that he will be there, waiting to dance with her in her starlit world of fantasy. And each time she hears his impossible promises, they give her just enough hope to make it through another day.


	2. A Fistful of Lace

_In this second chapter I've written, I explore the possibility of Esme having a kind of "precognitive" dream about Carlisle. If you're reading Stained Glass Soul, you might be able to pick out some hints at foreshadowing in this dream. :)_

* * *

**A Fistful of Lace**

It was spring, and the boughs of trees were heavy with clusters of small blooming flowers. They hung from the branches like multi-colored bells – pink and violet and white, with frilly skirts made from spider webs and leaves. The broad green bunches sheltered her from the sun until a bright, silvery gate came into her view.

She squinted from her distance, straining to see the elaborate gardens that lay beyond the high gate. Esme ran the rest of the way down the path, feeling as though her feet were hovering an inch above the ground. The world seemed to glide towards her as she sprinted – as it always did in dreams.

Her enthusiasm was not dampened despite her sureness that she was inside a dream. Instead she took advantage of this dream world, and bravely lifted her hand to raise the bar on the silver gate. Without even so much as a glance to be sure she was alone, Esme boldly let herself into the enchanted garden that lay beyond.

Everywhere, there were flowers. Roses and lilies and daffodils; poppies and violets and carnations – perennials and annuals growing in the same place, at the same time of year. There were exotic flowers and local flowers, trees and bushes, but not a single weed in sight. Every flower that had ever grown on the face of the earth was here, she was certain. They had all come together in this garden, living harmoniously as if they had all found their way here to form their own secret society, their own peaceful Eden. Esme hoped she was not intruding.

There were so many flowers blooming around her that it was nearly impossible to pick out any one scent. It was like perfume without the burn of preserving fluids and alcohol. Flowers in nature were pure, not bottled by Chinese vases, rapidly wilting in some stuffy parlor. The sweet air that wafted past her nose was sharp and crisp, like a very light soap, or unsweetened tea. She could nearly taste their scent when she breathed in deeply. This was the way flowers were meant to smell. Their fragrance was indeed hypnotic, but in the most gentle way, like the breath of a loving mother who kisses her child goodnight – affectionate and familiar.

After a long and enchanting walk through the lavish gardens, Esme came upon a line of tall yellow willow trees, bending gracefully in the wind, like a royal court lined in welcome for their queen. As she walked through the aisle of swaying trees, Esme thought she could hear the wind whispering for her, "_your majesty_."

She smiled to herself as she prolonged her walk, savoring the soft, waxy grass between her toes. Above her head, red squirrels skittered about nervously on the tops of trees, their cheeks puffy from hiding their breakfast. A mated pair of ospreys were tending their nest lovingly, fluttering their wings for her when she passed them. The trees had bark like orange paper that peeled away from their trunks, revealing the smooth, silvery green flesh beneath it. Everything was so ripe and full of life that she almost began to doubt it was all a dream...

Then she heard it – a trickle like a wind-chime, shuddering softly in the distance, insulated by thick walls and carpets of flowers. She could barely tell which direction it was coming from, but when she explored a bit further, she could hear herself getting closer to the source.

The sun was burning away the morning fog, and the forest shone dewy and jade the deeper she went. She was not afraid of becoming lost, but rather intrigued by the thought of losing herself in such a beautiful place. She believed she would never wish to wake from this gloriously realistic dream.

The source of the curious sound grew clearer as she slipped between a thick, gnarly maze of a roots and bent trees. The plants grew so close together around here that she had to sneak through crevices just to get past. A young woman of any greater girth would never have been able to make it.

Esme just managed to slide her scrawny limbs through the spaces between the trees. She pushed her way out to the other side, finally stumbling upon a shallow stream that wound through the forest floor like a tranquil silver snake.

A voice, both strong and musical, fed her ears from afar.

"How did you find me?"

Esme turned in surprise to find the speaker kneeling beside the water, his hands face down under the flowing stream. She had grown so used to finding this familiar man in her dreams that she never even flinched now when her eyes fell upon his unearthly face.

"I was not searching for you, Doctor," was her simple confession.

His blond hair was tousled by the wind, and she noticed it had grown a bit longer since last she had seen him. He was as beautiful as she remembered, even more so with a ray of yellow light beating down through the trees over him. He looked so young and so strapping, even crouched by the water's edge with a pout on his face.

He winced slightly, and she wondered why he looked to be in pain. Stepping closer, Esme saw that translucent clouds of red blossomed from beneath his hands where they lay on the surface of the water. She brought a hand to her lips to conceal a small gasp, shocked to see that her beloved doctor was bleeding.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed, coming to kneel beside him in the grass.

"Please, you mustn't worry over me," he insisted, his jaw tightening again from the pain.

"Oh, but it must feel awful..." She reached out to him in pity, imploring him with her eyes. "Let me see?"

Tentatively he lifted his hands from the water, the red tinged droplets falling from his fingers as he turned his palms out for her to see. Down the middle of each of his hands was a deep, bloody gash. It looked as if someone had taken a small blade and had torn his flesh in anger. It was a gruesome sight, and most certainly done on purpose.

But why would someone do such a terrible thing to such a wonderful, kind man? It confounded her.

"How did this happen to you?" she asked breathlessly.

A fearful tension swept over her body as he looked up at her with darkened eyes.

"Sweet child, you should not have to hear that." His voice was grave, a wild contrast to the butterfly infested gardens surrounding him.

Esme knew it would be wise not to argue with him, but even that did not keep her from speaking her mind in a dream.

"You shouldn't be out here by yourself when you need attention for these wounds," she chided gently.

He looked away. "I usually do quite well on my own with such injuries."

"Forgive me, Doctor, but you don't look to be doing so well now," she said gently.

"Unfortunately there are not many who would care to help heal a doctor," he said with a sheepish, slightly bitter smile.

Her eyes alight with resolve, Esme placed her hand on her heart and met his gaze. "_I _want to help heal you."

She took his hands carefully around the wrists and pulled them gently towards her.

"You don't have to do that," he whispered softly, sounding a little less than sincere.

"I'd say I owe you the favor," she said with a shy smile and a swift gesture to her right leg.

Once she had his reluctant consent, she rested his hands on her thighs with his bloody palms facing upward so that she might tend to them. She ripped some strips of fabric from the hem of her nightdress, not caring if she woke in the morning with piles of shredded lace beneath her bed covers.

She dipped a folded piece of white cotton into the clear water and twisted it till it was damp.

"This water is terribly cold," she said apologetically before she touched it to the gash in his right hand.

"It feels wonderful," he assured, closing his eyes as she gently scrubbed away the blood.

His hands remained perfectly still for her while she worked to rinse away the red stains, not a single finger twitched out of place. His skin was soft beneath her fingers once she had his palms completely cleaned. After the blood had been washed away, she neatly wrapped his hands with the strips of lace from her nightgown and bound them tightly to help his cuts heal.

"There," she said proudly once she had finished. Her fingers rubbed little circles into his wrists. "Do they still hurt very much?"

"Not as much," he said, a grateful smile on his handsome face. "You've done a fine job, Esme. I'm tempted to ask if you've been a nurse before."

She chuckled bashfully and looked down where their hands were linked.

"I have one thing that may help even more," she said secretively.

"Hm?"

She lifted both his hands and placed a light kiss on each one, just above his lacy bandages.

"Now how do they feel?" she asked shyly.

"Perfect," he replied in a whisper. "Thank you."

A gentle breeze swept him away then; in a flowing stream of light he vanished into thin air, and only the bits of lace that she had used to wrap his hands were left behind.

Esme closed her eyes to hold back the tears, but when she finally opened them the glorious garden, the shining stream, and the weeping willows had all disappeared.

She was curled up in her very own bed, with a fistful of lace in her right hand.


	3. Her Right Leg

**Her Right Leg **

* * *

She felt an itch there, sometimes. A few inches down her calf, just below the knee.

It was more a sting, really. Too deep to be an itch, for an itch stays on the surface of one's skin. It was impossible to ignore. Sometimes it kept her up at night.

She would reach down to squeeze the flesh of her leg with her fingers, hoping to cure it with the constant pressure. But it never faded. It often grew stronger when she spared it attention, the pain throbbing inside of her delicate bone.

That leg had been broken once, and only once. Her right leg had once been the stronger of her pair, until she had fallen from her tree in the summer of 1911. Nearly a decade later, the pain still haunted her at random hours of the night. It could even creep up on her while walking to church in the morning. She would have to sneak behind the vestibule during the service to remove her high heeled shoes and rub the back of her leg with her gloved hand until it went away.

Her husband wondered why she was so preoccupied with that leg.

His eyes glossed over with cool suspicion when he saw her nursing it in the corner of a room, or beneath the table during supper. She dismissed it as an inherited case of rheumatism, but it was difficult to excuse it as something of little concern. In the midst of all her other injuries she had accumulated throughout the years, an ache in the back of her leg was hardly cause for so much attention. Naturally, he wondered why she never squeezed the bruises on her arm or picked at the scabs on the back of her neck.

It was only her right leg. The pain never seemed to leave it.

Esme always struggled to protect that leg from Charles, more than any other limb. He could strike her cheek or shove her shoulder, or whack his belt against her back... but he could _not _touch that leg.

She would not have it ruined after all the care Doctor Cullen had taken to heal it.

But she could only keep that leg safe from Charles for so long. One night he touched it with his terrible hand – he grasped it with all the harshness that he grasped a bottle of ale, as if it would come freely and detach itself from her body. She shrieked at the pain that shot through her, racing all the way from the place he twisted her ankle up to her spine.

She had kicked him in the jaw by pure reflex, causing him to roar in displeasure as she yanked her leg back away from his devious grip. She cowered on the corner of the bed, holding her hands over her head in the protective way she had learned by her own experience.

"So you're going to be difficult tonight, are you?" he grunted out.

She bit her lip so hard it started to bleed.

But she would rather make herself bleed than let _him _be the cause of it.

"Esme," he said her name, but it was not as harsh as she had expected.

It began to rain outside.

"Esme." He said it again, this time even quieter.

The rain came down harder.

She peeked out from under her cupped hands.

His dark reddish hair was scruffy and hanging in his eyes. It had been months since he'd gotten it cut. Usually this made him look even more frightening to her, but right now he looked a bit like one of those poor neighborhood boys they'd paid to sweep the chimney. He looked confused, as if he'd missed some important detail. As if it made no sense for her to react to his violence with self-protectiveness and fear.

"You don't want to do this."

She couldn't tell if it was a statement, a question, or... if hope would allow her, a sign that he was letting her go...

She was too petrified to shake her head, so she stayed completely still, crumpled into a fetal position on the mattress, her eyes barely able to blink though they burned with tears.

Charles had that _look_ he sometimes got in his eye. It was a kind of glint, more prominent in his right eye than his left. It was hollow, guilty, bristling behind a shield of frustration. Esme dared to wonder sometimes if this meant he was regretting his behavior. Sometimes his eyes seemed sad while his face was red with anger. Sometimes his voice broke when he tried to command her. Sometimes... she could see that her husband hated himself.

But this was the first night he let that hatred overpower his urge to use force with her.

And Esme was shocked, shaking, entirely in awe while she watched Charles toss the sheet over her body and whip a hand through his sweaty hair. He looked around the bedroom with bleary eyes, as if he were lost in the surroundings, as if he feared the walls were about to close in around him.

He took one last look at her before he fled the room, his suspenders clanking against his belt, and he spent the rest of the night someplace else.

She had not a single clue where he'd gone, but his absence was a blessing enough that she didn't care.

Esme pressed her cheek to her cold pillow, her eyes swelling with salty tears. She sobbed in silence, the idle thump of her heart and the sound of her teardrops landing on the pillow the only sounds in the dark room. Outside the house, the rain poured steadily off and on into the night.

She would cry like this almost every night. The only reason she supposed some nights passed without a tear was that a woman could only produce so many tears in a day. Sometimes she was bound to run dry.

With a heavy heart, Esme imagined a better life behind her closed eyes. While half asleep and alone in this room, she sometimes indulged in a childish fantasy where a teensy fairy would come through her window on a moonlit night and cast a spell over Charles, turning him into a pile of dust while he slept. Sometimes she dreamt that a group of angels with fiery golden wings would descend from the sky before dawn and invite her to join them in the heavens.

Sniffling like a melancholy child, Esme reached across to open her nightstand drawer. She dipped her hand inside and searched until her fingers found the small cluster of lilacs she'd picked that morning from the neighbor's garden – a little old lady who never noticed that she had a regular trespasser. Esme inhaled the flowers' sweet perfume, and more tears flooded from her eyes. Her fingertips adored the delicate bunch of lacy purple and pollen, and her touch was filled with tenderness, with the kind of love she was never shown. And as her fingers danced around the fragrant blooms, Esme remembered the one person in her life who had touched her like she was a flower.

These days it was practically taboo to think of..._him_.

Yet she all but hungered to see him again. As her memory recalled him, he had been an absolute vision; so beautiful. She wanted to keep to herself his rarity and fineness the way she had collected colored stones and small bird's feathers when she was younger.

In her younger years she had forgone the guilt of her hopeless infatuation with Doctor Cullen. In the days before she was a married woman, it was acceptable to dream about her long lost doctor.

She had not thought of him in so long. That dashing young blond man who wore black gloves and spoke with a mysterious accent.

If she had been any younger when she'd broken her leg, Esme was sure she would have believed him to be a prince in disguise. She recalled vividly the way he had come into her parlor, his coat drenched from the storm, his face more handsome than she was taught science would allow. An entire novel could not suffice to describe all of the features of this enigmatic physician whose hands held magical powers. Not the stroke of a paintbrush or the smear of an oil pastel or the scratch of a pencil could do his beauty justice. He had been perfect. Too perfect to have been real.

The years had taught Esme to question and criticize. She had been exposed to so many shades of black, so many dark situations. As her mind grew and changed over the years, Esme began to doubt that Doctor Cullen had ever truly existed. She had been taught by experience that dreams would always be blown away with the next gust of wind. No thing of beauty ever lasted.

But in the night when she closed her eyes, Esme saw her dream again.

It was a delirious dream she had that night Charles had struck her right leg. She had been crying for hours, leaving her eyes swollen and her head aching terribly. The pain diffused with the coming of slumber, but it did not depart. Her leg still stung from the places her husband's hand had hit. If she looked down she could see dull blue bruises dotting the pale skin of her calf, like spots of mold on clean white bread.

Ashamed that she had been careless enough to let harm come to her beloved right leg, Esme reached down to cover the bruises from sight with her hand.

Before her palm could touch her skin, however, the room around her was lit with a balmy golden glow, almost like candlelight, coming from an unseen source.

The window across from her bed shone brightly, long rays of light filtering through to touch her feet. At such a late hour a light so bright was impossible. It was like a false sun she saw streaming through the glass.

She blinked over and over again, rubbed the tears from her eyes, brushed tendrils of her hair out of her face. But nothing would take the spectacular vision away. The light poured on into her room until every wall was glowing softly and her sheets looked to be made of fine golden silk.

Esme sat herself up against her pillow, lifting her sleeves to check her arms for signs that she had been infected by this mystical golden aura. But her skin was just the same, pale and dun, peppered with familiar scars and scrapes from the years before.

A sigh of disappointment rose and died in her throat as her eyes again fell upon the gleaming window. To her shock the glass pane burst and shattered, as if the pressure of such a burdensome light had grown too much for it to bear any longer. But the shatter of the glass seemed to happen in slow motion and without a sound. The crystal shards floated outward from the window with the whimsical grace of bath bubbles, spreading into a star-like shape as they dispersed into the air. And in the very center of that star, shining brighter than the sun, was the image of her handsome doctor.

Only angels entered a room with such grandeur, Esme thought. Dream or not, she could not help the awestruck tears that flowed down her cheeks at the indescribable sight.

His body became more solid as the feather-light shards of glass pieced themselves together, forming his figure like an exquisite mosaic of colored glass. His hair, his skin, his clothes all shimmered in soft golden hues. And his eyes, just as she remembered, were the most striking gold of all.

At last the force of the wondrous light settled into something her eyes could receive without squinting. When she looked toward the window now, she saw Doctor Cullen, plain as day, still silhouetted by that transcendental light source beyond her reach. He stood proudly before her, an alchemy of lights, a brilliant vision composed of stardust and snow-white flesh.

Esme's heart began a brutal battle with her ribs as her unexpected guest neared her bedside. This was not the first time she had been visited by Doctor Cullen in her dreams, but it was certainly the first time he had been illuminated from head to toe like a radiant angel, and right inside her very bedroom... reaching out to her.

Not for one second was she afraid to offer him her hand.

Her skin was yielding when he touched her. Warmth more exquisite than a Meridian sunrise enveloped her hand like a salve. A sensation like wild fire chased the fear straight through her arm and right out of her body as he held her hand. Never had she felt more protected, more assured of her safety than she did in his angelic presence.

_"Don't cry,"_ he whispered to her, his voice like a gentle lullaby. _"Don't cry, Esme."_

Sadly, his soft-spoken command had the adverse effect. When she looked up into his face, the purity and hope she saw there beckoned more tears to drown her eyes. Exhausted from her crying, Esme let her head fall against her angel's chest, resting where his heart should have beat.

His other hand rose to cup the back of her head, holding her to him while she let the sobs seep through her, encouraging her to offer all of her troubles and burdens for his willing shoulders.

She spent the rest of her tears on him, let the droplets melt into his shirt... and he savored her tears as if they were a sweet spring rain, or spray from the sea.

Her relief shuddered through her, leaving her breathless and limp with his arms tight around her. Once she had fallen silent he laid her gently back on the bed and perched himself on the very edge where he could hover over her, a lantern that would never burn out.

_"Doctor..."_ The title left her lips, but she never heard it make a sound.

The frustration of having no voice never consumed her. Instead she took comfort in knowing that Doctor Cullen knew too well how to communicate with nothing more than touch and gaze.

As his fingers passed over her blemished skin, the hue of her youth returned, fair melanin like a fresh apricot in summer. Beneath his fingertips, each bruise vanished instantly, like when one stares at a star for too long in the sky. But this was not an illusion, at least not in her dream. She did not need to fear looking away, for when she looked back, her skin would be as clean as milk.

His caress traveled the complicated terrain of her body, restoring strength and feeling where there had once been weakness and numbness. He erased the markings of her childhood accidents and the evidence of every one of Charles' beatings. Doctor Cullen was an artist and he was painting her with purity.

At the end of his journey, his fingers congregated over the curves of her cheeks on either side of her face. His hands felt large and protective, like warm white shields that hid her eyes from the world. She stared willingly, straight into his eyes for as long as he held her, his touch filling her with tranquility and love and comfort. His thumbs wiped away rogue tears that spilled from her eyes, but no matter how many times he chased them away, they always came back.

It made her heart ache in the most torturous but wonderful way, knowing he would gladly continue to collect her tears for the rest of the night, never looking away from her eyes. He would be utterly content to sit with her in her bed and watch over her until the sun rose... and maybe even beyond that.

For as long as he stayed by her side, she noticed, the pain her right leg was gone.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading!**


	4. Kiss Away the Pain

**Chapter 4:**

**Kiss Away the Pain**

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Sometimes in her dreams, Esme knew precisely where she was. The surroundings would be as familiar as the back of her hand, a place she knew well in real life – perhaps her kitchen at home, or the pasture behind the horses' stables on her father's farm. The scents, the sights, the colors, and the air would all feel as real as if it were not just an illusion. In these kinds of dreams, she may as well have been awake.

When Esme was eighteen years old, her dreams no longer took her to familiar or even conceivable places. Instead, the world inside her sleeping mind was twisted and vague. She rarely recognized her surroundings in her dreams, and when she did spot something familiar, it was never as it should have been. There was always something missing or something askew.

Nightmares were plenty, and she was always glad to wake. But in between those nights when she woke with a startled heart and a breathless bosom, she sometimes was given a night where her dreams were intensely pleasant.

But for as pleasant as these rare dreams were, there was an element of strangeness that always accompanied them. No dream was perfect for Esme; there was always a touch of pain. In the case of the following dream, her greatest pain was having to wake up.

Before Esme had fallen asleep that night, she'd had her first glass of wine at a party in Columbus. The night had been a blur since her first sip. In the back of her mind she had suspicions that one glass had quickly turned into two, which may or may not have turned into three or more...

She vaguely recalled walking half the way home in the snow with her father's arm around her shoulders. The streets had been too slippery for her to walk on her own, her balance being as terrible as it was from intoxication. The winter's breath was icy on her face, but not even the bitter cold could calm the fire that raced under her flushing cheeks. The effects of the wine were impenetrable for poor Esme, who was a blatant virgin to alcohol.

Perhaps that glass of sparkling red liquid had something to do with the intensity of her dream that evening. Her mind had been cloudy and her thoughts had been scattered long before she surrendered to sleep. She made her way up the stairs to her room without bothering to light a fire. It was her duty to keep the household warm, but she had carelessly neglected that duty in favor of immediate sleep. Her feet could barely carry her weight as she struggled to undress and slip into her nightshift. By the time her head hit the pillow, the effects of the drink had rapidly consumed her.

Behind her closed eyes, Esme felt herself being pulled downward in a spiraling grasp of darkness. Her arms and legs seemed bound by a frightening magic, and no matter how violently her body fought against it, she could not seem to break free.

Down the mysterious spiral she went, plunging into a darkness most unusual – for the darkness that swallowed her was not black in color, but a color that did not exist in the real world. At the end of this dark tunnel there appeared a great blast of light. As it touched her feet, she felt a spark light her skin, and her yelp of surprise echoed in the empty void.

When her eyes opened to the world around her, the world of her dream, Esme felt as if she had walked straight into a twisted fairytale.

Surrounding her was a forest of glittering flora and frighteningly exotic looking plants that towered so high they blocked out the sun. The trees were tall and willowy, their leaves glistening and dancing slowly in the wind as if they were underwater. On the ground, hills of lush foliage and grass sprouted all around, threads of shining tinsel that swayed like waves on a rolling ocean. Beneath her bare feet, a shallow pond of lilac colored waters rippled, lapping at her skin. The thick, perfumey air smelled of her own bath soap and the wine that lingered on her breath – her only links to the real world she knew waited just beyond this mysterious dimension.

The enchanted forest of her dream was so thick that the only light came from tiny little spots between the leaves on the trees above her. The tops of the trees were so high, they made a canopy that served as a sky, and those speckled dots of sunlight became stars.

All at once, the sunlight behind those trees dimmed, turning orange and pink, then eventually violet. The plants all came to life, glowing and blooming under the strange purple light. Above her head, she could make out a pink crescent moon and a smattering of galaxies that hung low enough for her to reach up and touch.

But when Esme tried to move closer to the wonders that lay ahead, she was pulled back harshly, bound by a force she could not fight. When she peered up and down her own body she saw that her wrists and ankles had been tied tightly to a tree behind her. The rope was twisted twice round, the knots too complicated for her to untie on her own.

She was trapped.

Such a beautiful dream this was, yet the circumstances were so cruel. How unfair that she could not explore the wonderful world that stretched out just before her very eyes. Instead she was stuck in one place, unable to take even one step out into the wonderful land that awaited her.

Every moment that passed was torture. The grass made music when the breeze raced through it, fireflies winked at her as they floated past, begging her to come and chase them. Flowers bloomed, stars danced, trees swayed, tiny silver fish waltzed around her in the pond – but Esme could not touch any of it. All she could do was watch.

She wished she would just wake up.

Just then, a stirring from the trees ahead of her caught her attention. In the quiet clearing where she was trapped, the rustling of leaves and distant footsteps from beyond were welcoming sounds indeed.

A twinge of fear tightened her stomach for a moment before she remembered that in such a beautiful dream, there was no way that her visitor could be anything less than beautiful as well.

And after all, it _was _a dream... To some extent, she could control it if she truly wished. She could make _anyone _appear... _Anyone that she desired..._

It seemed not a moment had passed where she was given the chance to imagine him, for he was already there. She saw his arm first, reaching forward through the thick leaves and vines, as if drawing back a curtain to make way for his entry.

He materialized out of the dark violet shadows in an aura of pale gold, looking positively ethereal in the dreamy setting. He belonged with it, she supposed – for he, too, was strange yet beautiful.

In every dream her doctor appeared, he was always exactly as she remembered. His face was never more clear in her memory alone than it was in a dream, and this was why she longed for her dreams to be of _him. _The deep world of slumber was the only place she could speak with him, see him, possibly even touch him.

All she could hope was that she did not wake before she had the chance to do those things.

If only she could be freed from her bonds.

She watched him come out of the forest and into the clearing, like a prince making his escape from a forbidden forest. His chest was cloaked in a dashing white tunic, his legs clad in toffee colored breeches, and his calves covered in buttery leather boots. Esme could only guess he had been traveling for a while to reach her, but he did not look at all weary or breathless from his journey.

She wanted to call out to him in case he would pass her up, but she could not make a sound. She was stunned into silence at the mere sight of him.

Even if she had summoned him into her dream with the power of her own mind, she could still not believe he was here. It was so hard to believe he was only an illusion, for she had thought him nothing more than an illusion that day when she'd met him. With his luminous blond hair and skin as smooth and pale as an empty page in her sketchbook, he was always striking in this way – a walking dream, too perfect to be real.

Esme struggled vainly against her bonds, but to no avail. The ropes stung her wrists and ankles when she tried to pull free, and the pain, even in her dream, was smarting.

She winced and fell back against the tree with a heady sigh that echoed eerily in the clearing.

As she had hoped, the sound of her distress drew his attention towards her. He stopped moving, stood stock-still in the middle of the glittering shrubbery, and stared at her.

His eyes were as lovely as she remembered, a titillating gold that could pierce her very soul with no more than a fleeting glance. The fireflies that swam around him looked dull in comparison to the glow in his eyes.

_Come closer, _she thought, begging the dream to obey her. _Please come closer..._

At her unspoken bidding, the image of her childhood doctor stepped a few inches nearer to where she was trapped. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed her state of peril, and his body became tense as he came cautiously closer, step by step. His boots brushed through the long tendrils of green grass, each soft footstep bringing Esme another bout of comfort. Eventually she ceased in her struggle against the bonds that kept her tied to the tree, filled with reassurance that he was coming for her, slowly but surely.

"You found me," she said, disappointed to find that her voice was capable of no more than a whisper in this dream. Dearly hoping he could hear her, Esme was relieved to see him smile softly as he stepped into the water that surrounded her.

With every step he took closer, her heart beat louder. The water level rose with his entry, swallowing her heels and creeping up well past her ankles. It was both cool and warm at once, the way hot water might have felt with spots of ice that had just melted. The sensation was wonderfully strange, but she should have expected nothing less from such a dream.

She looked down to watch the purple tinted waters ripple outward from the pair of approaching boots. Her heart pounded mercilessly when he stopped right in front of her, the tips of those boots just inches away from her bare toes under the shallow pool.

"Why have you tied yourself to this tree, you silly girl?" his deep voice cooed from above her head. The sound of it was watery and musical, magnified, but at the same time distant and quiet, muffled by the undulating matter of her dream.

Shyly, Esme peered up at the tall man before her, finding his face striking as a vision of an angel in the dark, fantastical space.

"You think I did this?" she asked incredulously, jerking her hands forward in the clutching ropes that tied them to the tree.

"Are you not in control of this dream?" he challenged smoothly. His voice still sounded as if it were coming from behind a thick panel of glass. It frustrated her greatly.

"I suppose, but..." Esme paused, caught off guard by his odd question, "I did not _choose_ to be trapped in it."

He raised one regal golden eyebrow and tilted his head down to look her more squarely in the eye. "Didn't you?"

In his whispered words, Esme sensed something far deeper in meaning. He was not speaking to her about the bonds of this dream, but the bonds to which she had tied herself in real life.

Esme looked down at her feet in shame. "How did you find me?" she asked him quietly.

"I was searching," he answered. Even muffled by the strange liquid echo, his voice sounded sure and proud.

She looked up hopefully. "For me?"

His handsome face positively glowed with a gentle, affectionate smile. "I am always searching for you."

A blazing warmth crept into her chest as his fingers suggestively grazed the ropes around her wrists. In that moment Esme forgot all about the lilac colored waters and the firefly infested gardens that surrounded her. _He_ was the most enchanting creature she would ever see, and he was about to set her free.

She watched as both his hands drew together over one of her tied up wrists. His concentration focused entirely on that complicated little knot, and within the next twenty seconds, the rope swiftly came undone, hanging limply at her side. As the rope fell away she could see that it had left an angry red impression around her wrist, which her doctor found worthy of his attention. The sheer care in his golden eyes stole her breath away as he leaned down to press a soft string of kisses around the red mark that circled the base of her hand.

Esme watched with wonder as the redness instantly vanished, like a line of ink being wiped away by soap and water. She perhaps should not have been surprised that in her dream, Doctor Cullen's kisses possessed magical healing properties as well.

She had a strong feeling that his kisses would be just as magical in real life...

Knowing that this was only a dream did nothing to discourage Esme. She allowed herself to enjoy the moments of peace she had been given to spend by Doctor Cullen's side. She watched him with eager anticipation, every move he made to free her from her uncomfortable bonds. The pain she felt was very real as the ropes scratched her skin, but the relief she felt was even more intense when his lips pressed patiently along her other wrist, repeating the same miracle cure. With careful fingers, he caressed her skin gently, soothing the burn left behind on her skin from the scratchy fibers.

With both her hands freed from the ropes, Esme longed to reach forward and embrace her doctor. But he had work to be done yet. As he knelt down before her in the water, she remembered that both her ankles were still tightly tied to the tree. She savored the ticklish touch of his fingers as he deftly undid the loops around her feet beneath the water.

His trousers were soaked at the knee when he raised himself up, the droplets of pale purple water sliding down the buttery leather of his boots. He smiled with satisfaction as he stood before her, and in an achingly soft voice he said, "Now you are free to go."

But the last thing Esme wanted now was to explore the forest around her. She wanted to stay right here with her doctor and never leave his sight. In fact, she wished that her dream would lead her to become trapped in the very same spot so that he would have to untie each of her limbs all over again.

Most of all, she wanted to feel again the sweet circlets of kisses he had placed around her wrists. But perhaps next she would let his lips wander around her ankles... Then if she was persuasive enough, he would lay that circle of kisses around her waist...

"I don't want to leave you," she whispered to him, her voice desperate, caught snugly inside her throat.

His forehead crinkled in confusion, as if she had just refused the most precious of gifts. "Do you not want your freedom, Esme?"

She swallowed hard, glancing around at the strange forest as she considered his question. It had all looked so appealing before, but now she had eyes only for him.

"What if I become lost again?" she asked urgently.

Esme's heart sighed as one large hand rested soothingly on her shoulder. "I will always come and find you."

His words felt heavy and sure, sinking into her as absolute truth. Esme had never heard anyone speak to her with such resolute assuredness, such forthright honesty. Her trust in him was downright dangerous. He was, after all, only a dream.

But he was more real to her than anyone she knew in the waking world.

With that, Doctor Cullen leaned down and placed one of his precious kisses on Esme's forehead, a kiss that burned like the summer sun.

Esme opened her eyes again as the rain started to fall through the canopy of trees overhead. Each droplet that fell erased a part of his beautiful face as it streaked through the air. He stood before her, still smiling softly, still staring into her soul with his ethereal amber eyes. But as the rain came down harder, it took part of him away streak by streak, until he was melting away in a stream of endless watercolors that stirred together in a whirlpool of misty nonsense.

Into the whirlpool Esme felt her body being pulled, and she willingly submitted herself to it, knowing she was really submitting herself to _him. _

The colors wound and swirled around her, tangling about her wrists, ankles, waist and neck like angry ribbons that threatened to choke her until she could no longer breathe.

When Esme woke with a start from the strange dream, she found herself coiled in her bed sheets, still dizzy from the wine she had taken before she had fallen asleep. She untangled her shivering body from the sheets, now regretting her failure to protect herself with a fire before she turned in for the night. Winter's unforgiving chill was a most unpleasant presence in her room. While she was sleeping, a barricade of frost had formed over her windows, locking her into a chamber of ice.

When she turned the lamp on, she saw that her wrists and ankles were still smarting with faint red marks from where the sheets had been wrapped too tightly.

How dearly she wished that her doctor could kiss them away.

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**A/N: This chapter was inspired by an idea from one of my readers a while back. An idea suddenly hit me for how I could turn it into a dream sequence for this story, so I ended up writing it overnight because I couldn't sleep. I guess I'll be having equally strange dreams tonight!**

**Thanks to anyone reading - I always love to hear what you think.**


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